


Honorable

by paladinpalindrome



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, Pre-Quest, Rape/Non-con References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 08:08:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paladinpalindrome/pseuds/paladinpalindrome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is lost after Erebor. Searching, always searching. Covered in the dirt of the mountains and the soot of a dragon and the tears of his people, he searches. Standing at the tallest peak of the valley to look out ahead, praying desperately as he takes in the vast, wasted, empty landscape that he seems in control, that he seems to know what to do and where to do it. He tells himself the moisture on his face is from the cold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honorable

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt on the hobbit_kink meme: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/702.html?thread=810174#t810174
> 
> Disclaimer: Text from the conversation between Balin and Thorin is taken from _The Hobbit_ screenplay.

_You don't have to do this. You have a choice - you've done honorably by our people._

Thorin twitches sharply at that. It wouldn't be noticeable to many, save Dwalin, perhaps, who is well attuned to his each and every movement, the byproduct of years and years of living and fighting and bleeding together. Balin doesn't notice, or if he does he pushes past it, intent on assuring Thorin of his kingliness, his success, his honor.

_You have built a new life for us in the Blue Mountains._

He is lost after Erebor. Searching, always searching. Covered in the dirt of the mountains and the soot of a dragon and the tears of his people, he searches. Standing at the tallest peak of the valley to look out ahead, praying desperately as he takes in the vast, wasted, empty landscape that he seems in control, that he seems to know what to do and where to do it. He tells himself the moisture on his face is from the cold.

_A life of peace and plenty._

They're searching again. Searching for anything: food, shelter, a place to stay safely for the night. A place where their women won't be attacked and their children won't be snatched. A place for Dis to lay her head down in peace. For him to hold Kili and Fili and pray they won't be taken from him.

\--

He snaps at the boys for stirring up orc stories to scare off the hobbit, burning with irritation at their stupidity, at the thought that having your throat quietly slashed would be the worst thing that could happen to you.

He looks at Kili's brightness, at his eagerness to please, and his chest tightens at all the ways the world could take advantage of it. He sees Fili, his gentleness and fierce loyalty, and shuts his eyes against all the things the boy would do to protect his people.

_You know nothing of the world._

\--

He was young, not his nephews' sort of young, but young still, when he came stumbling back that night, pacing quickly towards their encampment from the town, to tell them that they could move, that they could limp into the city's walls, that they had been granted sanctuary from the wolves and the wild and the bitter cold for the night. He need not tell them the price.

Dwalin is still with Dis, thank heavens, though when Thorin walks up he is standing a ways away, watching the darkness behind them from the top of a large embankment. Below, surrounded by overgrowth, Dis is dozing by the crushed embers of what little dry firewood they could find. Thorin passes her, striding towards the two small bundles on the other side of the dying fire. He scoops them up in his arms, warm, secure, and more precious than all the gold that's been stolen and all the dignity and honor that he has just lost, and he holds them as tightly as he can to his thrumming heart, praying that they can stamp out the darkness there too, that holding them will help him remember what he gave himself up for. 

Dis is barely stirring but Dwalin is there in front of him now. He balks at whatever is torn apart and storming in Thorin's eyes, but graciously says nothing, merely grunting at Thorin's short nod and turning to wake the rest of the camp. _We are yours, laddie,_ he will say later, when they have left this godforsaken nest of a city behind them, standing with his friend and prince, noting how he decidedly will not look back behind them as long as the place is still in sight, remembering how the gold Thorin said he paid the lord for sanctuary is still in his pocket. 

But for now Dwalin walks away, leaving Thorin to Dis' stirring and the rustling of two dwarf princelings muttering "Uncle" and "'Rin" with a laughter and a lightness in their young voices that is untouched by any of the darkness that settles deeper into Thorin's shoulders after that night. Dwalin strides away through other shaking bundles of men and women and children, the joy that clings to the would-be-princes' voices a rare echo in his ear. He knows the tracks on Thorin's face are not from the cold. 

_There is no choice, Balin. Not for me._

\--

He remembers pain, and a flaring heat over his skin, and a pervasive sort of helplessness such as he had never felt, not even when the dragon stormed through Erebor. That was war, and a sword in his hand, and a home to defend, not a surrender and a blushing shame, and a rich lord's bed beneath his back while his people waited in the rain and cold, praying for one night's sanctuary from the road. Facing Smaug was anger, and rage, and a cold, hard purpose, not filthy words in his ear and too-smooth hands pressing him down, branding bruises into his skin.

He came freely and he leaves, freely: his hips are bruised and his shoulder is bitten, but he swears he feels the prints down in the corners of his soul. Thorin Oakenshield had never before felt small. 

\--

The days after are hell. 

The road is hard and more than his pride is wounded. His body is weak and his dreams vivid, full of the press of another man and the horror of the moment he understood what it was the lord wanted. 

_"I've never known a prince to spread his legs so quickly."_

His sleep is uneasy, the nights long and the days longer, his skin crawling away from anyone who comes close enough to touch, biting down on a flinching terror that rears its head every time Dwalin smacks a shoulder or Kili winds himself like a root around his leg. 

_"You want sanctuary? Is that it?"_

Their reception is simpler in the next town - gold being the only payment required, and Dwalin goes with him to negotiate this time, pretending not to hear his request to stay with the camp, and Thorin knows that unlike the dwarves who ventured to the door of the last lord's home with him, Dwalin will not be so easily sent away. He stays, silent and strong, a reminder of purpose as Thorin almost chokes on his words when another lord stands to tower above him. 

Dwalin says nothing. Nothing at his obvious relief when they leave the lord's house, nothing at the prince's own heavy silence, nothing even the next day, when they find Fili after the lad runs off in town and Thorin shakes his nephew so hard they can hear his teeth gnash together. Maybe he suspects that kind words would break him, so he says nothing, nothing till they leave the town, and then another, simple, _we are with you, laddie._

\--

Thorin remembers, always. 

He remembers in the days just after, when he turned away from the food that had been given them by the lord, telling Dis he had eaten already or passing it off to the elderly dwarves, refusing to let a single reminder of that man touch his lips again. 

He remembers in the years later, when Kili is tall and Fili is fair, and men like _that_ one leer and prey, and his heart jumps through his teeth when he silently begs that they will never be touched, that they will never be pressed down and made small and sell themselves away for what should have been theirs. So he barks orders and ignores the troubled look in Fili's eyes and the confusion painted across Kili's face when he knocks them down in training again, harder than is necessary, and turns away instead of helping them to their feet again. They are of Durin and must stand as tall as men. And there is no moisture on his face anymore but from the cold. 

\--

He arrives at the hobbit hole and says _I lost my way,_ and does not say that he has been lost for years. He does not say that he had stayed away, drinking in the quiet and the cool air outside until the merrymaking had died down and he could shoulder the burdens of his past once more. Kili and Fili are there, as they said they would be, with all the cheer of the world on their faces, strong and (for the moment) silent, and too old to be clutched to his chest anymore, but still shining, vibrant, living talismans of all he has ever given and all that there is left of him to give. 

He looks on his nephews and smiles, and the sons of Durin stand as tall as any man.


End file.
